


Here and Gone

by Arision



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/M, I don't even like this movie that much, OTP Feels, Silent support, The hell is with me, for a first work this is dark, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arision/pseuds/Arision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had been told her sacrifice would come.  She did not think it would be this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here and Gone

**Author's Note:**

> So, my very first site work, and I'm really not sure what to say other than--I'm sorry. I'm not even part of this bloody fandom, I just finally saw the damn movie at two o'clock in the morning, and I am having feels. (When doesn't someone on this site?)
> 
> So, please, don't examine this too closely. It was just a plot bunny I needed to get rid of before I could sleep.

Anna, the headwoman of the fishing village she had once spent the night in, had told her that her sacrifice would one day come. Snow had thought it would be the loss of the men who rode with her in the liberating army, the day the darkness ended. That their lives, so many of them, the weight of guilt and grief and uselessness, would be the sacrificial burden she would carry in exchange for her kingdom's freedom.

And so great was the weight.

The songs, written later by bards who had not even been present, loved to dwell on her 'heroic' rising from Ravenna's curse, her rousing speech and call to arms, her daring in leading an army against a castle well stocked to withstand a siege without a well-known way inside. They sung of the Duke's glory, and of William's bravery. They sang of the fire in the hearts of the people long denied and oppressed, at last awakening from darkness, and unwilling to return to it's cold embrace. There were songs for the dwarves, all of them, or singularly, depending upon the bard; there were songs for her journey through the dark forest and beyond, dogged by Finn and his band of hunters. The dangers and the narrow escapes, which thrilled and delighted listeners. There were songs for her parents, beloved and lost.

There were even songs for Ravenna and Finn, although these were less than kind, satirical and mocking and cruel, painting as monsters two people who would beg no more the mercy of the world.

What the songs did not dwell on was Jonathan, a farmer who had worked the lands under the Duke for all his life, and his father before him, and his father before him. There were no songs to his death in Ravenna's mirror chamber, impaled by creatures of glass and black magic, as Snow lost herself in rage and helplessness.

There were no songs for Anna, whose village and home burned to the ground, with all her worldly possessions inside. Nor the suffering of her and her village, as men went off to war and left them to the tender mercies of a Queen determined to remain young and beautiful long after her time had passed. No odes were sung of their willingness to scar the faces of themselves and their daughters, sacrificing their beauty for safety; the possibility of a new marriage for the scant security they could provide for themselves.

No lovely music for Greta, who was drained of youth and strength for the duration of Snow's harrowing journey, locked alone in the Northern tower, left to the care of Finn and his less than kind men; under Ravenna's power until by fairest blood, her curse was undone.

No dirges for Gus, who gave his life for hers, save the one sung as he lay burning upon his pyre, and surrounded by all who had loved him.

The list was endless in her mind, of the unsung warriors and victims, of the great losses. These numbers hung heavy on her shoulders, topped by the press of duty and expectations. She was expected to know so much: matters of state, politics, court factions, rationing, ways to hear common petition, how to write the law for all her people. It seemed they had forgotten she had spent more than a decade at the top of a cold and drafty tower, with only birds and the occasional observation of Finn for company. She had to learn all of these things, and she had to learn them quickly, for as Ravenna had fallen, other scavengers came to her borders, to see what could be found.

She drove off first one army, with her tiny militia, and then another, aided by the White Hart and the creatures of the forest. When the second force had been repelled, that was when the true battles began. Rulers sent ambassadors, men and women who smiled and laughed and told her their kings and queens had been unable to send aide, but now were more than willing to help her find her feet. (For a price.) They sent their sons, and the sons of their nobles, for all manner of reasons. To spy upon her armies and court, to weaken her grip on her throne still so newly won, or to secure the seat beside her on the dais. They made her promises, lying behind their perfect smiles; watching for weakness and searching for cracks in the armors of her kingdom, and in herself. 

 

Councilors wished to be heard, and for their own agendas to be advanced. They would talk at her for hours, telling her what she should think, where she could go or wear or say or do. There were days she thought of nothing but clapping her hands over her ears and screaming in order to drown them out. Still others, she wished Ravenna had finished the job that cold day on the snowy forest floor. Even William had begun attempts to tame her, to turn her into what he thought would befit a good Queen, a fitting wife. Often, she felt as though she were trapped again in the sea that beat against the palace cliffs, tumbling about the surf with no way to find herself, and wondering why she even bothered to try.

This was her true sacrifice, the loss of self in return for the safety and prosperity of her people. And just as she was about to let go of her last hand hold, to give in to Earl such-and-so, or Lady wants-something-from her, or just accept the proposal of Prince Large-chin, he would be there. 

Her rock, her anchor.

Her huntsman.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Usually, it was just a small word, a smile, a cup of tea and a tray of food left in her study when she was working late into the night. Little things like the knife he had given her vanishing for a day, to re-appear in a new sheath with the edges freshly sharpened. Like a rose from the palace gardens, trimmed of thorns and blooming all multitudes of colors. They would appear in the oddest and least likely of places: replacing her book marks, upon the pillows of her bed, in one of her saddlebags when she went for a ride. Or perhaps a moment as they passed in the halls, to pause and speak and make a joke that brought a smile to her lips, after what seemed like eons.

But sometimes, when no one could see, or when she needed it most desperately (and she didn't know how he always knew when she had reached the end of her rope, he just did.), he would place a hand to her back or to her shoulder. A squeeze with his calloused, workman's hands that gave her both a tiny thrill just under her skin, and a renewed strength to be the Queen her people deserved, and that she had promised to be. 

Once, only once, when they had both had a bit too much wine at a ball held for some public personage or other, she had vanished into the darkness of a side hall, seeking silence and peace in a whirl of near hysteria. He found her clutching her stomach in a gown worth more than the house he had once lived in with his wife, (and a hundred of them besides) and breathing like she was fleeing from Finn again, back in the Dark Forest long ago. He had found her in her unseemly state, and placed that rough (lovely) hand to her cheek, pressed his lips to hers for one moment, then two, again and again until she had clung to him, unwilling to release her only sanctuary.

Her huntsman had held her, kissed her and soothed her until she was rational once more, and then he pushed her gently back into the light of the ballroom, fortified against all challenges. And stayed behind, vanishing from her sight and her side for the rest of the night. He was more careful, after that. His touches were always in a place easy to mistake for platonic affection, as if he feared that getting to close would bring her to ruin as it had his wife, his Sarah.

So she contented herself to those small, quick, far too brief touches. For now. For in them, and in all of the gestures he made, playing her bulwark, her foundation of strength, he was telling her what he would not, or could not, say with words.

Here. I am here, my princess. My queen. My love. Always, I am here.

**Author's Note:**

> Still here? Wow, thank you for reading. This did not have a beta, and it was popped out at three thirty in the morning off the top of my head. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it that you stuck with me till the end!
> 
> "If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed; If not, 'tis true this parting was well made.”  
> -William Shakespeare


End file.
